


in tension that is.

by halowrites



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M, Threemanbus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halowrites/pseuds/halowrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- written for buddleia in sesa '05</p>
            </blockquote>





	in tension that is.

  
The wings are entirely unexpected.  


Okay, not entirely-- Justin vaguely remembers a conversation with JC, culminating in some little white pills being pressed into his hand-- which he hadn't thought twice about at the time. He'd only wanted to soothe his sore throat before it turned into something more and JC had sworn that the little pills would help.

Fucking JC. Fucking JC with his glass of water at the ready, and the small smile on his lips when Justin had swallowed them down and then glanced his way a few moments later, the bitter taste of the pills still thick on his tongue. "They're just what you need," JC had said, his eyes glittering in the passing streetlights, and that had been the end of it.

Until a few moments ago, that is, when Justin woke up, strangely cramped and uncomfortable and more than just a little itchy--to discover he's somehow grown _wings_ while he slept. Now it seems to be not so much the end of it as the start of something _else_ altogether.

Of course, Justin has to admit, it's not like his throat has gotten worse since swallowing the pills either, so perhaps this is some kind of strange side-effect, occurring in .00000283274 percent of the population. He'd Google it - keywords: _sudden and unexpected wing growth_ , maybe--if it wasn't taking all his concentration not to freak out. He's bone-tired and his head hurts with trying to understand it all.

"Wings," he says softly, because it seems to be all he can say, tilting his shoulders from side to side, feeling the gentle ripple and shift of feathers against bare skin.

Justin unfurls them slowly, carefully, making sure he doesn't knock anything over-- not so easy in the bus, which seems suddenly a lot narrower now he has a wingspan to take into consideration. There's a skritching noise as the tip of one wing scrapes the window, and he has to roll his shoulders a little, until-- _there_ , that's it. Fully-extended, they're about five foot across from tip to tip, a shimmer of white and grey reflected in the darkened glass, and softer than he expects underneath his fingertips.

If he'd ever expected to have wings at all, of course, and in all the brilliant chaos that is his life, Justin has never once expected anything even remotely close to this.

*

"Wow," JC says for the third time, sleepy-eyed and early morning-voiced. "Justin, I didn't-- I never-- _wow_." He reaches out to touch one of the wings before stopping short, his finger just hovering over the intricate pattern of feathers, a look of wonder on his face. "Sorry-- it's just. They are so very _cool_."

"I guess," Justin says, gathering them in close to his body with a careful shiver. He doesn't know why, but they don't want to be touched right now. He doesn't know _how_ he knows that either, just that he does, and that it feels right. The wings settle into place with a soft ripple, tucked neatly behind his shoulderblades.

"Could you feel them grow?"

Justin shakes his head. He couldn't then, but he can _now_ , the wings almost seeming to hum, sending hundreds of tiny tremors along his skin, something sharp and electric buzzing ceaselessly up and down his spine. He feels like he should be moving, like he _needs_ to be somewhere other than here. The floor of the bus is rocking gently, in constant motion beneath his feet, but that's not the same at all.

JC's eyes are wide. "Does Chris know?"

The wild hum in his spine snaps fiercely into place, and Justin nearly loses his footing.

"No," he says.

*  


  
"Just say something," Justin says, wrapping his arms around himself. He can feel the soft kiss of feathers against his fingertips. "Anything. I shouldn't have taken those pills, maybe. It has to be them, right? I don't know what else it could be."

He's not making sense but can't stop talking and wonders if he sounds as miserable as he suddenly feels. Maybe after all of this--whatever _this_ is -he's still getting sick anyway. His skin is hot and tight, and there's a dull ache in his throat from swallowing back all the things he wishes Chris would say.

Chris stays silent, swaying a little with the movement of the bus, in sweatpants and a worn cotton t-shirt, his hair a dark tangled mess.

"It's just." Justin shrugs helplessly, a whispered drift of feathers settling around him. "I didn't mean for this to happen, Chris. You have to know that--"

"I know."

Soft, barely-aloud, but it's the first thing Chris has said since Justin showed him the wings. Justin can feel his pulse flutter in his throat, his belly swirling with something he doesn't really understand. He draws a deep breath and shivers, then extends one wing, letting it unfurl completely, watches it hang pale like smoke in the small space between them.

Chris smiles and reaches out his hand. "May I?" he asks.

He's asking permission, Justin knows, but suddenly it feels like so much more, and the answer on Justin's tongue is one he's been waiting for so very long to give.

"Yes," Justin whispers, closes his eyes and waits.

*  


  
He doesn't feel Chris' fingers at first, just a slow warm breath across his shoulders, like honey melting over his skin. He's swaying on his feet, some rhythm he feels both inside and out, slinking through him, through every part of him.

"Look at me," Chris says and Justin does, opens his eyes to Chris' face just inches from his own. Chris is touching one wing, trailing a finger slowly over the solid arc of feather that curves over Justin's shoulder. Justin can feel it, a steady pulse of heat that sparks through him from head to toe, leaving him a little light-headed. The wings didn't want to be touched before, but they do now, and again Justin doesn't know _how_ he knows that, just that he _does_ , carries that sure knowledge inside him like it has always been part of him.

"Chris," he says, and it's getting harder to stand upright, to stand _still_ , "Chris, I think--"

" _Oh_ ," Chris murmurs, and his fingers slip down to fit the curve of Justin's waist, holding him steady. There's something a little like wonder in his voice, and his eyes are bright, urgent. "Oh," he says again, and then, " _yes_ ," and for a moment Justin can't feel anything at all--and then he's tumbling forward, over and over, nothing below his feet anymore, wind in his face and the sky across his tongue.

*

 _This is what it feels like to fly_ , Justin thinks, and it's so strange, so bizarre, he can't stop from laughing. The sound is pulled from his lips to drift away around him, a soft hiss weaving through the steady rush of the wind in his ears. Another sound, slow and steady, and it hangs on the edge of his awareness, just out of reach, until--

  
_The wings._   


The wings, arcing in a graceful rise and fall, slicing through endless blue, perfectly in time with his heartbeat. On every downward stroke, the shiver-touch of feathers across his back is followed by the flex of bone and muscle as his shoulders shift and roll with the air current. He's dreamed of flying before, of course he has, but never, not even once, has it ever been like this. He dips his head and takes a breath and lets himself be carried forward, arching his back a little, curving to the left, the right, and then back again. He glides in lazy swoops and figures of eight, the wings lifting him as easily as breathing.

\---- _Justin._

He hears it though the word is barely there, slipping around him like the wind, sliding under his skin.

\---- _Justin._

Again, and he turns toward the sound, instinctively moving forward. Chris, a bare heartbeat ahead, is smiling like he has all the time in the world. There are no wings rising from Chris' shoulders, but he doesn't need them, not now his legs are tangled with Justin's, his hands fisted in Justin's hair, his mouth on Justin's throat.

Chris' skin is smooth and wind-cool, but the inside of his mouth is hot, tongue insistent as it slips against Justin's, his teeth a sharp shock into the soft plush of Justin's lower lip. Justin's pulse is stuttering in his wrists, pressed to Chris' face, holding him there, all around them the slow beating of wings.

If Justin wasn't already airborne, this alone would knock him off his feet, send him tumbling head over heels, this thing he's only ever imagined a thousand times before. Chris, kissing him like a drowning man, all teeth and tongue and urgency, his fingers curling fierce around Justin's hips, tiny sounds spilling from his throat. They are words to a song Justin has never heard before but somehow knows anyway, and he feels it sing along his skin, slip beneath and then through, filling him with music. He wants to ask _how_ and _why_ , to tell Chris of the thousand questions tumbling through his head, of the brilliant colors behind his eyes. But Chris' mouth has stolen his breath away, and Chris' fingers-- those clever, clever fingers-- are warm and sure, heat gathering low in Justin's belly.

"Can you," Chris says, "Justin?" and the sheer need in his voice is dark fire licking at Justin's skin. He doesn't need words to answer, just nods and moves closer still, trusting the wings to carry them both, to move them to where they need to be. A long slow spiral of blue and Justin spins in it, with it, his mouth against Chris' shoulder, dark spice across his tongue and sleepy pleasure uncoiling through his limbs. He can't help rocking against Chris, sliding his leg between Chris' thighs, not able to stop the low moan that slips from his mouth at the sweet, sweet friction.

Soft breath against his throat and the shiver of wings sends tiny chills across his back, his skin hot and electric. Justin tastes ozone, feels it sparking, flickering through him, a storm of his own making. Never in his wildest dreams was it ever once like this, Chris' hand slipping down the front of Justin's pants, fingers wrapped around his cock and moving in a slow and steady rhythm. Justin can feel it build, a ripple of warmth through his belly, shifting, spreading, uncoiling along his skin. He wants this to last, to take it and shape it into something he can control, to be caught in this moment forever. Not this time though, because this time it's too much, too good, and he's coming undone, unravelling beneath Chris' hands, a deep pulse of pleasure slipping along his spine. Justin twists his hips and arches forward, feels the shift at his back--the wings splayed out wide and sure, lifting them both even higher, the air around them thrumming with a bright hum he can hear and feel.

Chris' hand never falters once, not even as he presses his mouth to the curve of white just beyond Justin's shoulder and bites down gently, sharp teeth into soft feathers. A sudden shock of fierce heat that steals all the air from his lungs, and Justin rocks forward and comes hard all over Chris' fingers and his own belly in a never-ending shimmer of wet heat and white noise.

* 

He's free falling, spinning through the air in a tangle of arms and legs. Up is down and down is up, and Justin can't remember how to fly.

  


  
*  


"...ustin?"

Chris' voice, and it sounds as if he's shouting into the wind, his words being whipped away before Justin can gather them all up and figure out what they mean. He tries to sit up, but there's something holding him down, a solid heat across his chest. He aches all over, and is that from the fall? He remembers falling endlessly through blue, the wings trailing behind him--

  
_I had wings._   


Justin tries again to sit up, his head pounding in time with the blood racing hot through his veins. The weight across his chest shifts with a soft grunt, and he looks down to see what it is. Chris' arm, attached to Chris, and he's looking back at Justin, sleepy-eyed and smiling.

"He wakes," Chris says around a yawn, a dark tangle of hair falling over his forehead. "Are you with us yet?"

"I'm. My wings," Justin says, and he's reaching behind him, fingers scrabbling, seeking what he knows he'll find. "I can't feel--"

There's nothing there but his own skin, the ridges of his vertebrae, everything fever-hot beneath his fingers.

"I fell," he says, the world suddenly tilting at crazy angles all around him, nothing to stop him falling off the edge but Chris' arm anchoring him to the bed.

"Not quite, then," Chris says softly, to someone just beyond the doorway. JC, a glass in his hand, something darkening his eyes and pulling his mouth down at the corners. He frowns, then sits on the edge of the bed, bunching the sheet between his fingers, smoothing it out again.

"I flew," Justin says, because he _did_ , he knows he did. "I was flying. I -"

"You were flying, alright," JC says, his fingers splayed across the sheets, pale skin on damp cotton. "You spiked a fever of 103 and you were burning up--"

"No." Justin shakes his head, frustrated. "This was real, JC, I swear. I had _wings_ \--"

"You were pretty out of it," JC says, and he sounds as tired as Chris looks, but his voice is strange and sure. "Chris stayed with you, stayed here to--"

Justin shakes his head again, because, no. _No_. He knows what happened, and this isn't it. It can't be. He can still feel the way the wings curved across his back, the cool shiver of feathers against his skin. How it felt when Chris' legs were tangled with his, his mouth on Justin's, the bright sting of his teeth--something brand-new in Justin's belly aches fiercely with the memory of that.

"Chris, you," Justin says, but he doesn't know how to even start to explain what's in his head, what he can still see behind his eyes. He can't even begin to find the words for how it felt to have nothing beneath his feet but air and sky, to have nothing in his head but the sound and taste of Chris. This wasn't just another dream-- not this time. "You were there, too," he says finally. "With me."

"Keeping an eye on you, yeah," JC says. "He's been with you since-- well. All along."

And that's not it at all, that's nowhere near what Justin meant, but there's something glittering in JC's eyes, and Justin has to let it go. For a long moment, no one says anything, and then Chris, his voice quiet but firm,

"You should get some more sleep. I know I could use some."

"Yeah," JC says. "I'm going--"

"I'm not going anywhere," Chris says softly, his fingers brushing over Justin's mouth, warm and safe, familiar, the answer to a question Justin no longer needs to ask. "I'm staying right here."

Justin sees a look pass between him and JC and feels something unspoken slipping into place, settling around him like the soft whisper of wings. He'd speak, but his mouth is filling with the ghost of feathers, a thousand of them spilling across his tongue.

JC's lips curve into a dark smile as he stands up, setting the glass down beside the bed, carefully placing two small white pills beside it.

"Just in case," he says, pausing in the doorway for a moment, swaying gently with the never-ending motion of the bus, "the fever comes back."


End file.
